


Broken Bifrost

by SapphyreLily



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Gen, my take on semishira's relationship in scions and sake
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-12-07 06:57:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11618355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SapphyreLily/pseuds/SapphyreLily
Summary: Some things are irreparable. Some things...just need a while to fix.





	Broken Bifrost

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [After the Storm](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9463553) by [Kaiyou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaiyou/pseuds/Kaiyou). 



> Based on by [This Town by Niall Horan](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ic1l36GrNOU)
> 
> Idk this song just reminded me of SemiShira in Scions & Sake and I hurt myself writing this  
> (This is set across the Shiratorizawa arc in S&S but AO3 won't let me link the whole series so >.>)

Daylight, slanting in, cutting across his face. He throws an arm up, turns away, back into the darkness.

But the heat of it sears across his back, growing more and more uncomfortable.

With an exasperated sigh, Shirabu rolls off the sofa, catching himself just before he faceplants into the floor. His head is spinning, throbbing, and he groans.

He needs to give blood soon. He’d forgotten again, trying to put it off.

God, he hates the needles so much.

Shirabu stumbles as he rises to his feet, carefully avoiding the stacks of takeout boxes, wincing when he brushes by and hears them crash. He doesn’t dare to glance back, because he can already hear _his_ chiding voice in his head.

_Just because we live pretty high up doesn’t mean the cockroaches can’t get to us, you know._

Shirabu brushes the memory off, heading for the bathroom.

But inside, all that greets him are more reminders.

A toothbrush, left behind, that he had no heart to throw away. An almost full tube of facial cleanser, the type that is too drying for his own complexion. A little cup, its childish print faded to almost nothing, waiting for someone to pick it up and use it again.

Shirabu is suddenly too overwhelmed by emotion, and grips the edge of the sink, teeth sinking into the fleshy part of his hand, refusing to acknowledge the heat that rises behind his eyes.

**_I miss you._ **

He freshens up quickly, avoiding all the things that he would never use – and never throw. He doesn’t have the heart to do it, to remove the last traces of his best friend from his life.

There, he said it.

His best friend.

**_Now an enemy, now a stranger._ **

The thought makes his head pound even more.

The kitchen provides little reprieve, its only condolence the needles and tubes and empty bottles, waiting to be filled. He avoids them first, getting a glass of water and sipping at it, slowly, slowly.

But he can’t put it off forever, and his head is ready to explode.

Shirabu sits, swabs his arm, and carefully inserts a needle into a vein.

It’s dully fascinating to watch his blood drain, to see the red dripping into the bottle. He could watch it forever, maybe let the red up and overflow…

Ah, but it would be too much of a mess. He could earn money from that spilled stuff.

Sighing, he grabs a cotton swab and presses it over the needle, sliding it out from his skin. One bottle would have to do for now, or he might end up daydreaming and really bleeding out over the tile.

Who knows the problems _that_ might cause.

 ** _But still,_** he muses, **_It might be easier. One less problematic human for the world to worry about._**

He’s being melodramatic, and he knows it. Perhaps it’s time to go out, get some fresh air.

And sun. Shirabu turns to eye the light blazing in through the gap in the curtains.

It’s odd, that he’d be awake at this hour – almost noon, in human time, the middle of the night for vampires. But that’s alright, to him. Less chances of any vampires attacking him, if he goes out now.

Less chances of running into anyone he doesn’t want to meet.

Shirabu seals the bottle and puts it in the fridge, picking up his wallet and keys. He contemplates a short while before sighing, and puts the empty takeout boxes into a trash bag to take out with him. The living room looks a little neater just with that action, and the voice in the back of his head quiets a little.

He isn’t sure if he’s grateful or not about that.

\-----

There’s a little playground near the supermarket he’s headed to, and he usually avoids it at night because of the unsavoury characters that like to hang out there. But now, in broad daylight, Shirabu can see the children running, screaming, playing with wild abandon on the swings and slides. It almost makes him nostalgic for a childhood he never had, for a time he never spent playing outside.

_“I’m bored.”_

_“Me too, but what can we do?”_

_“I saw a bookshelf in the other room.”_

_“Boring. Are there any games around here?”_

_“Dunno.”_

One of the children flies up in the air on the swing, screaming in delight. Shirabu almost smiles at the sight, but the twisting of his heart makes him turn away.

He can’t deal with that. He’s not the same as them.

_“Do you want to play on the swings?”_

_“Yeah.”_

_“Let’s go! Your mum won’t be back yet.”_

_“We can’t. What if someone attacks us?”_

_“I’ll protect you! No one’s gonna get past me.”_

No. He’s not the same. He’ll never be the same.

(And he can never forget it.)

He tilts his head back, welcoming the blinding effect of the sun, willing it to bleach his memories.

**_You said you’d protect me, but where are you now?_ **

(Long fingered hands, always so strong and sure. The ones that held him gently, bandaged him up, the ones that healed quickly, as he healed slowly.)

(Hands that had he had hid behind, then stood in front of. Hands that he had held and supported and once, twice, multiple times – loved and worshipped.)

(Hands that were always steady and steadfast.)

(Hands that would probably never hold his again, and he felt their absence like it was his own hands missing.)

\-----

Sometimes, Shirabu wonders what it would have been like, if he had spoken up more, if he had stopped him.

(If he had gotten a chance to explain.)

But then he remembers the crushing betrayal.

It is more painful because Semi never deigned to tell him.

And his hands shake at the thought of it, of being so far removed from someone who was such a close part of him once. It makes him scared and angry and _hurt_ , because **_why hadn’t he thought to tell me?_**

Even if they were nothing to each other now – they were still friends, weren’t they? Friends told each other things.

Or maybe, he was nothing.

Shirabu curls up on himself, tighter, tighter, wishing that he could disappear.

Perhaps, that was all he was after all.

Nothing.

(A bloodbag.)

(Something to use and crush underfoot.)

(It wasn’t as if anyone wanted to hire him for his talents, anyway.)

He snorts. **_What talents?_**

**_You’re not even beautiful, desirable. All you have going for you is maybe the promise of your blood being richer than a regular person’s._ **

The harshness of the thought makes him want to cry.

He tilts his head back, letting it rest along the glass window, refusing to let the water fall.

**_It’s no wonder no one wants me._ **

(If he can’t even keep his oldest friend, how can he keep anyone else?)

\-----

_Sometimes, he dreams. Dreams of their past, of how even though it was painful and jarring, they still had each other._

_They always had each other._

_In every abandoned house they squatted in, with every less than nourishing meal they stole from dumpsters – at least they were alive, and they could depend on each other._

_He dreams, he remembers – of how it was like to wake up shaking from a nightmare, only to rest in the arms of someone who could soothe him. Of waking up to a nightmare that wasn’t his, to give comfort and be comforted in return._

_It was give and take, but it was good. There were no boundaries, there were no repercussions. There was only care, and concern._

_He misses it. Having that soul-deep connection to someone, if only because he’s known them since forever._

_(If only because he was needed for his blood.)_

_And maybe it was nice, to be needed. His entire existence was centred around keeping Semi alive, and Semi kept him alive in return._

_(Give and take, give and take.)_

_And even if they fought sometimes – they were good for each other, to push and pull and make the other the best that he could be. He doesn’t regret a second of it._

_But he does miss it._

_(Is it love, if you’re missing your best friend?)_

\-----

Semi wonders, sometimes, what his ex-best friend is up to.

Ex? Or not?

Could you ever lose a best friend, in that way?

The night is as dark as ever, but no one has come to get him.

It can’t have been that long, he knows. A few days, maybe. He knows Tendou’s trying to be sensitive, trying to give him the space he needs to think, but he’s also dying a little.

Maybe it’s the bottled blood. The processed ones. They taste disgusting, but he forces himself to drink them, because, well, he needs to survive, right?

It’s just… He can’t bring himself to drink the bottles that Shirabu sent over. He knows he could, he _should_ , but it feels a little like admitting defeat.

Defeat to _what_ , he doesn’t quite know yet.

Maybe it’s the fact that he still relies on him, even though they’re fighting. Maybe giving in, and drinking his blood makes it feel like he’s accepting of the way Shirabu had treated Ushijima and Tendou like objects, like whims and fancies that he could grab any time that he wanted.

But it’s never so simple, is it?

Or maybe…

No, scratch that. It is a ridiculous thought.

He’d never thought about it, though. The fact that every drop of blood that ran in his body was practically Shirabu’s.

It wasn’t normal, was it? To have your best friend’s blood running in your veins?

Maybe closer than that. He wasn’t just his best friend, he was family.

He loved him.

Maybe that was the problem.

Maybe, it was that they ran headlong into a romantic relationship too fast, and never stepped back to think.

Maybe, he was a bit too hasty when he ran out, leaving them irreparable.

He curls up again, pressing the covers over his buzzing thoughts, and tries to sleep.

\-----

He watches from far away as Shirabu comes storming up to him, yelling about this and that.

(This and that.)

(So he says, but he knows better.)

It’s a struggle to tune in, to listen to the words that he wants to say.

**_Did you feel sorry for me?_ **

_No, of course not–_

**_Were you laughing behind my back?_ **

_How could I–_ Why _would I laugh at you?_

But nothing comes out, just meaningless words with no backing – all fluff, all garbage.

And then Shirabu’s gone, run off, as if he hadn’t trodden on Semi’s feelings a million times with it.

_Do you hate me?_

He wouldn’t blame him if he did.

A gentle hand pressed to his cheek, something pressed into his arms, and he looks up, and realises– Realises–

A forehead presses against his, and though another set of arms tighten around him, he can’t quite make himself stop.

_Have I made it worse? I thought we were getting better._

(Liquid heat falling from his eyes, and he wants to stop, but _how_?)

And then–

“…intentions might have been less than pure.”

Whoever they were, he was going to _murder_ them if they dared to lay a hand on Shirabu.

_I said I’d protect you._

Cajoling words, a figure run off, and those arms tighten around him once more.

Shirabu might hate him, might despise him for doing this, especially when Semi knows how he feels, but he can’t stop himself.

They might be fighting forever, but Semi knows he can’t stop caring.

_(I’m sorry.)_

(Words he might never say in person.)

How can you stop caring for someone when they are an irreplaceable part of you?

\-----

(You can’t. You don’t.)

And even in their absence, you feel it.

\-----

He watches Tendou admit that he drank – _he drank!_ – from Shirabu, and– And–

It feels like he’s breaking.

_I see._

He does, he _does_ understand, and it’s _Tendou,_ but–

But Shirabu has never let anyone else drink from him.

(It’s his own fault, he brought it on himself.)

(He still feels betrayed.)

(It’s foolish, because he has no right to. Heck, he’s told Shirabu that a million times–)

(He’s such a hypocrite.)

“He doesn’t hate you either.”

(Can he believe that? That Shirabu doesn’t hate him? Because he can’t, he…can’t. Not right now.)

(It feels stupid, to think that Shirabu doesn’t hate him, after all he’s done, after how much he’s hurt him.)

(He can’t forgive himself, why would anyone forgive him?)

But arms wrap around him, and a kiss is dropped on his head.

“I think he’ll be okay.”

(Even if he can’t believe himself, he can always believe Tendou.)

(Yes, he can trust Tendou.)

\-----

Sometimes, they think the same way.

_A dream, made reality._

**_Where we would meet again._ **

_Under good circumstances._

**_And just… Talk._ **

_Clear the air._

**_Explain myself._ **

_Tell you that I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to betray you._

**_I promise I_ ** **do _wish you the best._**

_I miss you._

**_I love you._ **

_You’re a part of me._

**_I’ll never stop needing you by my side._ **

_You know me better–_

**_–than I do myself._ **

_W **i** l **l** y **o** u **l** i **s** t **e** n **?**_

\-----

A pair of hands, pressed up together, through soundproof glass. Reaching out, trying to touch, but never really making it.

Faces blurred through the mist of shouting, trying to listen, but failing.

And eventually, hands drop away, back against their sides, turning away from the barrier.

It’s so much easier, to avoid the barrier that can’t be broken.

If you avoid it, you can’t shatter the fragile peace, and you can’t bleed.

\-----

But eventually, everything comes to a head.

When you’re not ready, reality hits you in the face, makes you look at your circumstances.

And sometimes, it’s okay.

**_I’m fine, Semi._ **

**_Don’t worry._ **

(Sometimes, the chasm that seemed so wide, so gaping and deep and irreparable–)

_If you’re sure._

(–maybe it can be fixed.)

**_I am._ **

(Maybe, maybe, the past can be forgiven, and you can finally apologise, and move on.)

(Maybe one day. One day soon.)

The chasm isn’t something that can close naturally, but maybe, the foundations of a bridge have been set, and you can start to build – or rebuild – something.

It’s not a given, but that’s the beauty of possibilities.

(And even the silence hanging between them is different – no longer as tense, no longer as heavy.)

 _I_ **_m_** _i **s** s **y** o **u.**_

**_I_ ** _f **o** r **g** i **v** e **y** o **u.**_

_W **i** l **l** y **o** u **l** i **s** t **e** n **t** o **m** e **?**_

**Author's Note:**

> Edit: Rem said this piece reminds him of [Growing Pains by Maria Mena](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hPdX389kLxI)! Go listen to it, it makes me want to cry too, it's so fitting


End file.
